


White Trash

by cemetery_driven



Series: crimelord 'verse [1]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Breathplay, Crimelord AU, D/s, Drug Use, Dubcon play, Kidnapping Fetish, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2413073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cemetery_driven/pseuds/cemetery_driven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank is going to collect some cash, and finds a nice little surprise at the record store.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Trash

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gerardwaysgay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gerardwaysgay/gifts).



> For gerardwaysgay again, and doubly so because she's had the sads lately. New 'verse, completely separate to my other 'verse.

It was just a small-time cash collection on the local record store. Routine, almost. Frank was only tagging along because he could use a few new albums, otherwise he would've just sent the usual guys.

 

They'd already busted through the back door when Frank hopped out of the driver's seat, running a hand through his hair. It could use another dye job around the sides, the red was starting to fade already. At least it hadn't grown out as fast as it had the last time he'd shaved it into a mohawk.

 

“Frank, we may have a problem,” one of the guys – Tommy, Frank thought his name was, he couldn't keep up with any of them lately – said, sticking his head around the busted door frame. Fucking great.

 

Frank wandered in, kicking over the paper waste bin as he walked around the counter. He started flicking through the punk section, before Tommy piped up again. “He's down near the hoodies. Jimmy's got him.”

 

“Fuckin' wait,” Frank hissed. He picked up a Black Flag album, then one from the Misfits. He strolled past the alternative section and picked up The Cure's Greatest Hits and some Joy Division album. The Smiths looked good so he grabbed that too.

 

“Alright, what?” he said, shoving the albums into Tommy's hands. “You lose them, it's coming out of your cut.”

 

“Over there,” Tommy said, jerking his head toward the small clothing section. “Jimmy has a gun on him, but I don't know what you wanted to do about it.”

 

Frank sighed. They always fucking left it up to him, whenever he came along. Sure, he was the boss, and they'd occasionally leave an extra body here or there where it shouldn't be, but sometimes he just wished they'd not be complete fuckwits and use their fucking heads.

 

Frank rounded the clothing rack full of hoodies, and Jimmy had his gun pointed straight at some guy's head. Frank stopped.

 

The guy couldn't be much older than he was. His hair looked sort of greasy, and Frank could see the Iron Maiden logo on his bootlegged hoodie and his eyes shining with scared tears.

 

“He's coming with us,” Frank said, barely hesitating. “Get something to tie him up, he's coming with us.”

 

“But, boss-”

 

“Jimmy, shut the fuck up,” Frank sighed. “Shut the fuck up, or you're gonna be on the ground with a bullet in your face. You dig it?”

 

Jimmy nodded, but Frank still glared at him for a little bit longer than necessary after he started tearing up some shirt off the rack. “You, go get the cash,” he said, and Tommy scurried off toward the counter. Jimmy still hadn't got a single fucking tie off the fabric of the shirt and right now that guy didn't have a gun on him. This was why Frank didn't go with them most of the time.

 

“Let me fucking do it,” he hissed, snatching the shirt off Jimmy. He pulled his switchblade out of his pocket and almost shredded it, tying the guy's ankles with some form of makeshift shackle-looking set of ties. He slipped around behind him and made a gag out of another piece of fabric before leaning in close, his breath hot against the guy's cheek.

 

“I'm choosing to let you live. Do as I tell you to, and everything will be okay,” he whispered as he pushed the makeshift gag between the guy's teeth. He got a nod in response, and that was enough.

 

“Tommy, find a pen,” he yelled, hauling the guy off his feet and barging past Jimmy, his grip on the guy's elbow tight.

 

Tommy slammed a pen down on the counter. “I have the cash.”

 

“You two, get to the car,” Frank said. “Pop the trunk. I'll be out in two.”

 

The other two hustled out the back door, cash in hand, and Frank pulled a piece of paper out from under the counter. “Write what I tell you to,” he instructed, and the guy nodded. “We got fucking robbed. Sorry man, I'm out. I quit. Don't try to call. I'm done. Sign your name.”

 

Frank checked over the guy's shoulder as soon as the pen stopped moving. “Huh. Gerard. Pretty name for a pretty face.” He grabbed both of the guy – Gerard's – hands and tied them together behind his back. “Just... shuffle. Don't try to bolt, they'll shoot you. Or I will.”

 

Gerard's breath hitched, but he nodded. Frank tied his hands behind his back at the wrists, and dragged him out the back door by his elbow. The others had popped the trunk, and it was open by the time Frank got to the car.

 

“I can't fucking pick you up, so I'm just gonna shove you in. Kick my fucking tail light out, try to call somebody, anything, and I swear to fucking God I will cut out your tongue,” Frank hissed, pushing Gerard back against the car until his knees buckled when he hit the back bumper. He lost his balance just enough, and Frank gave him an extra shove. He heard a smack, which was probably the guy's head hitting the back of the seats, and grabbed his legs and pushed them in.

 

Frank slammed the door of the trunk shut, and slid into the driver's seat. He started the car up, saw the concerned look between Tommy and Jimmy, and the tyres squealed as he pulled out of the small parking lot. He'd ditch Tommy and Jimmy first, back at the fucking shit-house they came from. They didn't need to know where Frank was going.

 

He barely stopped outside the townhouse. There were a few of his guys coming in and out of there, and he wasn't in the mood to hang around and have them all kissing his ass. He chucked Tommy and Jimmy a wad of cash each, told them to fuck off, and shoved the rest of the money in the backseat.

 

As soon as the two fuckwits got out, it was dead quiet, bar the occasional thumps and muffled screams from the trunk. He gave up eventually, Frank didn't even know how long he went on. He lost track of time and turned his new Cure album up a few notches, switching it off before he drove through the gates at the front of his property. He parked the car in the garage, and made sure that the lights were all out in the house. One bonus for the amount of money Frank inherited and, well, collected on a regular basis was the fact that his security system was fucking flawless. Almost everything was computerized. His buddy Ray had done the whole place up about six months ago, and even the goddamn front door needed a keycode to get into.

 

Frank turned on the little miniature flashlight he kept on his set of car keys, the stream of light brilliantly white against the total dark of the garage. He blinked a little to get his eyes used to it, and popped the trunk.

 

“Get the fuck up.” He grabbed at the collar of the guy's jacket, and received a muffled string of obscenities in return. Once he was somewhat on his feet and out of the trunk, Frank clocked him in the left eye socket.

 

“Don't talk shit, asshole,” he muttered. “I chose to let you live, and I can change my mind, so shut the fuck up.”

 

Gerard let out a whimper, but Frank saw his hair move in a way that he guessed was either a nod or a sob. Frank was cool with whatever.

 

“Follow my lead, and don't you dare fucking try to run,” he said, grabbing onto Gerard's bicep. He dragged him forward, through the door that lead inside the house, and through the kitchen. He intentionally flung him into the marble counter, for shits and giggles, and the crack and whimper that came when Gerard's hipbone collided with solid stone.

 

“Stupid bitch,” Frank sighed. He dragged Gerard up a set of stairs, rolling his eyes every time there was a misstep or a stumble. “You're not fucking blindfolded, you idiot. I didn't even fucking tie your feet that tight.”

 

Gerard made some muffled complaint when they reached the hallway at the top, and Frank raised his fist again, smirking when he flinched. “Get in the fucking room,” he hissed, pushing one of the doors open.

 

Frank slammed the door shut behind them, and didn't waste time in getting Gerard backed up against the door, hands squashed uncomfortably between the solid wood and his own spine. Frank leaned in close, his breath hot against Gerard's flushed-red throat.

 

“I'm gonna get these ties off you,” Frank murmured. “I'm gonna get these off you and you're gonna get on that bed, right there, on your fucking hands and knees, or you're losing a fucking eye.”

 

Gerard nodded shakily, and Frank grabbed his switchblade from his jacket. He knelt down and cut through the ties around Gerard's feet, then pulled him forward, ducking behind him and slicing through the binds around his wrists. Frank shoved him between the shoulderblades, sending him tripping forward onto the bed. He got on his knees, as Frank had instructed, and Frank stuck his hand into his jacket pocket as he pulled it off and tossed it aside.

 

“Stay still, bitch,” Frank hissed, and pulled out a small plastic baggie full of white powder, shoving Gerard's jeans down around his thighs with a whimper of protest. “Any of this gets spilled, I'm taking the value out of you.”

 

Gerard whimpered, and Frank shoved his head down. “Stay fucking still, right?” he repeated, shaking out a small amount on Gerard's left ass cheek. He cracked his neck and drew the switchblade along the pale white skin, forming a nice, solid line of coke.

 

“You got any cash in those pockets, pretty?” Frank asked, and Gerard made some unintelligible noise. Frank stuck his hand in the pockets, searching for a wallet. His fingers brushed a piece of paper, and when he pulled it out, it was a solid fifty dollar bill.

 

“Bet you think you're rich, don't you? Fifty fucking dollars?” Frank laughed, rolling the note into a tube. He pressed one end to his nose, the other to the line of coke, and inhaled as sharply as he could. It felt like fucking bitter, burning, slightly coppery fire in his sinuses.

 

He tapped out another line on Gerard's other cheek, smaller this time, and repeated the process. Everything was going to buzz within the next five minutes, and he was going to have that buzz everywhere.

 

He tapped out another small dose onto the blunt edge of the knife, and pulled at Gerard's hair, forcing him upright on his knees. “This shit, right, this shit goes up that fucking nose of yours, or I'll get real fucking creative with where this shit goes,” Frank breathed, and held the blade right under Gerard's nose. He looked pretty fucking terrified, and Frank tugged at his hair again. “Do it.”

 

Gerard brought a shaky hand to one nostril, ran the other across the knife, and choked a little after the line disappeared into his nose. Frank bit his lip and groaned a little.

 

“Pretty little fucking thing, aren't you?” Frank cooed, tossing the switchblade aside. He brushed Gerard's hair out of his eyes. “Look at me.”

 

Gerard's eyes were glassy, and Frank shuddered at the fear and want and a thousand unidentifiable emotions he could see in them. “I'm gonna fuck you,” Frank murmured. “I'm gonna fuck your pretty little ass, and you won't walk tomorrow. But I want that fucking mouth first, and you're not gonna scream, because if you scream or run or anything,” he jerked his head toward the nightstand. “There's a loaded fucking gun in that with your name on a bullet.”

 

Frank felt him tense up and shudder, and moved around in front of him, easing his jeans down around his thighs with practised ease. He stuck his fingers in Gerard's mouth and pulled the makeshift gag from between his teeth. Gerard spluttered a little, and Frank smirked. He wrapped his fingers in Gerard's hair, and pushed those pretty, pink, spit-slick lips over the head of his cock.

 

Frank didn't care, barely even noted the choking, gagging noises, the wet gargling around his cock. He drove his hips into Gerard's face, felt his nose brush against his stomach on every stroke. Frank would fuck this guy's mouth all night, if he didn't want to feel him shuddering and hissing and probably screaming with Frank's cock in his ass.

 

Keeping his hand pressing rhythmically up and down on the base of Gerard's skull, Frank used his spare hand to slip his leather belt out of his jeans. He wanted this guy ruined, and he wanted him ruined in the best and worst of ways.

 

Frank slipped the belt around Gerard's neck, and heard a whimper. He tugged up on the makeshift leash, and Gerard gargled mindlessly again.

 

“I've got half a mind to use just your spit as lube,” Frank sighed, staring at the pretty, glassy eyes. “I might be nice though. You've been a good boy.”

 

He grabbed the lube off the nightstand and slicked himself up, wobbling slightly as he climbed back behind Gerard, his dick pressing in between his ass cheeks. Gerard whimpered again, but didn't scream or protest. Frank snapped his hips forward, pushing inside Gerard's hole with one slick, sharp movement, and Gerard screamed then.

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Frank hissed, yanking the belt. “You shut the fuck up or I'll slit your fucking throat, got it?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Gerard choked out, and Frank loosened his grip.

 

“You know your place,” he breathed, never breaking his hard, rhythmic thrusts. “That's a good sign. Maybe I should keep you.”

 

Gerard let out a sudden gasp, that turned into a low, barely-audible moan. Frank must've hit his prostate. He smirked, and kept going right on that exact angle, as fast as he could.

 

“You're not gonna walk tomorrow,” he hissed. “You're never gonna walk again, not unless I tell you to. You're my new toy, Gerard. My new little slave.”

 

Gerard let out another moan, louder this time. “Yes, sir.”

 

Frank chuckled. “I wasn't giving you a choice,” he snapped. “I own you, Gerard.”

 

Frank pulled the belt tighter and tighter, feeling his orgasm building up low in his stomach, using the belt as leverage. Gerard's throat was getting rawer by the second, nothing much passing those pretty little lips but half-formed gasps for oxygen. Frank wanted this little fucktoy to twitch, to shake and shiver and buzz around his cock, wanted to drive himself harder and harder into his tight little ass, wanted to coat him in blood and coke and come.

 

Gerard's elbows gave way and Frank felt him come, without so much as his pants all the way off. He felt the overwhelming tense run through his body, felt him clench down on his cock like some kind of vice, felt that buzz he was chasing. Frank let go of the belt and shoved Gerard's head into the sheets instead, pounding his ass with all he had, chasing his orgasm. He was so fucking close it almost hurt.

 

“Please, sir,” Gerard whimpered, barely above a whisper. “Please fill me up.”

 

Frank shuddered, the orgasm hitting him like a wave, his hips rolling, still driving into Gerard's ass of their own accord. He fell forward slightly, and held himself up with one hand on Gerard's tailbone for a moment, breathing heavily.

 

“Jesus fucking christ,” he muttered, running his other hand through his mohawk. “You're one good fuck, Gerard,” he said, pulling his dick out slowly and flopping down on the bed.

 

Gerard rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Mikey's gonna see that note tomorrow and wonder what the fuck it means,” he sighed. “And he's gonna stab you for taking the cash.”

 

Frank snorted. “Fuck Mikey, it's my fucking shop. He needs to remember I gave him that job.”

 

Gerard shrugged. “Fuck, we need to do that more often,” he sighed. “Next time, none of the other dudes though.”

 

Frank rolled his eyes. “You want me to tie you up and shove you in my trunk and drive you around half the fucking town all by myself?”

 

Gerard nodded. “Yes, sir.”

 

Frank sat up, shaking his head. “If you insist, babydoll,” he said. “You want another line and a cigarette?”

 

Gerard rose up on his elbows. “Collar first, sir?” he asked. “You missed it earlier. Nice save with the belt, though.”

 

Frank rolled his eyes and picked Gerard's collar up off the nightstand. He put the thick strip of black leather around Gerard's neck, buckled it at the back, and tugged on the O-ring at the front. “You're still my slave, Gee. That's not a game,” he muttered, eyes serious and dark. Gerard swallowed.

 

“Sorry, sir,” Gerard mumbled, looking downwards.

 

Frank let go of the collar. “Shirts off, come on. You're sleeping naked tonight.”

 

Gerard frowned. “But, sir, the jizz-”

 

“I don't care, I'll wash the fucking sheets tomorrow,” Frank interrupted. “Get naked, I'm getting the smokes.”

 

Gerard stripped out of his clothes, watching as Frank stepped out of his jeans and boxers and started searching through his jacket for their cigarettes. He pulled out the pack as Gerard tossed his shirt on the floor.

 

Frank settled back on the bed, and grabbed Gerard's Sandman comic and the baggie of coke off the nightstand. He tapped out a line, neatened it up with his fingernail, and held it out to Gerard.

 

“I need something to snort with,” Gerard mumbled. Frank passed him a twenty dollar bill that had been sitting next to the comic. Gerard rolled it up, snorted the line, and hissed loudly.

 

“Fuck, Frankie,” he muttered, pressing his forearm to his face. “That one fucking hurt.”

 

Frank chuckled, and Gerard frowned even more. “I think I'm bleeding, sir,” he said.

 

Frank batted his arm away, and sure enough, there was a thin trickle of blood coming from Gerard's nose. Frank bit his lip, pulled Gerard's arm out straight, and tapped out a line across his wrist.

 

“I like it when you bleed, Gee,” he said, and Gerard passed him the rolled up note. Frank snorted it slower than usual, savoring the slight coppery taste in the back of his throat. “You gotta learn to chill with how hard you inhale. That's why you bleed.”

 

Gerard looked down and patted at his nose again. “I don't like the blood.”

 

“I know, babydoll,” Frank cooed, lying down and pulling Gerard into his chest. “I'll make you bleed in other ways tomorrow, will that make it better?”

 

Gerard nodded softly. “Yes please, sir.”

 

Frank pressed a kiss to Gerard's forehead. “Good little petslave.”

 

Gerard made a noise of delight and pressed his face into Frank's chest even more, and Frank knew he was blushing. Gerard got extra cute after a couple of lines and a few well-placed compliments.

 

“Next time, sir, can you take me out to the forest and tie me up and beat the fucking shit out of me?” Gerard asked, looking up at Frank with wide, glassed-over eyes.

 

Frank laughed. “Sure thing, babydoll,” he mumbled, and his mind started ticking over with how exactly he was going to kidnap his little toy again and again.


End file.
